White on White

Brian Cadd Interfusion

Time Loves A Hero

Little Feat Werner Brothers

Two things puzzle me about Little Feet's stage show - one wet that, despite hit teeming lack of contribution to their previous album, Lowell George totally dominates the proceeding!, end the other wet that Bill Payne — to all intents and purposes the remainder of the lead instrumentation — wet placed by himself to the extreme right of the band at might a seasoned and expensive sessionmen there exclusively to maintain an even keel.

Bill Payne alto features prominently on the Brian [unclear: Cadd] album, too, and I might get shot for daring to put this down in print in a year in which New Zealand's own Split Enz have received favourable acclaim from publications as diverse as Creem, Playboy and Rolling Stone at the outfit with the most ability ever to emerge from dehnunde, but "White on White" it the finest album to be produced by en Australasian artist this year.

That's not quite right, actually. Australian Cadd has assembled a hefty swaggering of skilled hands for "White on White", which wet recorded, I think, in the United States. They include ubiquitous session men Payne, Steve Cropper and Sneaky Pete; as well as Elton John's most formidable rhythm section to date, Nigel Olsson and Dee Murray, Whoever paid for the sessions must be finding himself somewhat depressurised around the hip, by now. The great advantage of such a system it, of course, that it eliminates even the possibility of making an error. One glance at the airbrushed artwork and you just know it's going to be heavy. That white icing on white took a long time to get exactly correct — that sort of thing, that sensation.

Cadd has a shrill, highly unpleasant voice at first — in the same way that polystyrene on glass will shiver the tympanum, but his vocal lines rapidly take on a mellifluous aspect and once one becomes able to decipher the words it soon impresses itself upon one that Cadd, who recorded a series of snappy 45s for an obscure Australian label in the early 70s has it in him to develop into talent of major dimension, if he feels so inclined, and on the evidence here that won't be long in coming. The colours of the cover might make it hard to distinguish the sleeve amidst the welter on the shelves, but it's the vinyl inside the sleeves inside that sleeve that counts and here, with the possible exception of a tribute to W.C. Fields somewhat spoilt by what sounds like a wonky tube, it's rock & roll par excellence from go to whoa. Not for a long time have I enjoyed an album quite so much.

There's also been an obvious shake up in Little Feat's approach, no doubt occasioned by a change of producer. Those chores ere now handled by the Doobie Brothers' Ted Templeman, and the resultant music it a lot more flexible than their previous shot. Time Loves A Hero gets off to a blistering start with Hi Roller, a song held in reserve from The Last Record Album and whet an almighty blast it is, too. That, and Red Streamliner, bear Templeman's obvious stamp, a is post Skunk Baxter Doobies. Feat, incidentally, are also aided by various members of the Doobies — most notably Baxter's tasteful dobro underpinning to Missing You, an exquisite gem which it the album's final song.

The first time I heard this I couldn't believe that Little Feat would dare put their illustrious name to such a pile of dreck. However, repeated listenings convinced me that initial impression was erroneous, which is not to say that there aren't clunkers on it. In fact, there are a couple of reel turkeys: Keeping Up With The Joneses, and Day At The Dog Races. The latter is an overlong instrumental which, funnily enough, seems to be attracting most of the favourable comment directed towards this album at the moment, but which to these ears is marred by a lumbering synthesiser introduction which gets progressively more lumbering at it is joined by the other instruments. Payne contributes some scintillating piano, but even Ritchie Hayward can't save this one, metronomic as he is, nor the latter which suffers from a fatuous lyric.

The only number Gorge wrote. Rocket In My Pocket, belts like the clappers all the way through, and though he's been lazy in the songwriting sphere lately, he shows his singing — a whiskey-cured amalgam of Jagger and Stephen Stills — it at potent as ever. His vocal stylings are well to the fore in Old Folks Boogie, a sardonic slab of lyrical wit which progresses from a neat description of life in a rock and roll geriatric's ward into a subliminal sexual metaphor. These boys sure know how to title, and when George screams . . . 'boogie we will' . . . at the end of the first verse it, end the immediately following bridge go down as another in their long catalogue of rock & roll masterpieces. The ultimate panacea for all those trendy downtown advertising agents and Young Nationals rapidly approaching 30 who get their kicks kidding themselves they're nearer 18, and I mean ultimate. Behind it all, Sam Clayton's relentlessly slithering congas propel the whole band at breakneck pace, adding an extra Doobie dimension; and if Hayward's drumming was any more solid it would be capable of rupturing a Sherman tank track — no trouble whatsoever.

So, a total of 20 tracks and only three of them—in comparison with the rest of the material — could be construed as sub-standard and even then they stand way above the crowd, and one has the idea that even if they were buried up to their kneecaps, they would still have a head and shoulders advantage.

— Patrick O'Dea.